A Petty Facebook Fight

Happy Saturday, my fellow fucked-fecundity friends.

The wee one is at Grandma's for the night. I've been unsupervised for 2 hours and feel as though I'm doing something illegal. About once a month she has a babycation there for an evening (good for marriage, good for sanity, good for baby - what happens at Grandmas stays at Grandmas and all that).  While others may scoff at this once-a-month-plan I know that it's good for us - however, every single time I spend about two hours blissfully doing nothing, followed by becoming completely bored and inevitably staring at pictures of her and willing myself not to clean because that seems like a lamesauce waste of a day off.

This week was marked by weirdness but yesterdays gem takes the cake. A cousin of mine, who is not someone I talk to more than once a year, called me out on Facebook for, apparently, posting my entire life online.

As is the usual, once daylight hits and Heisenbaby woke up I took her into our bed and shoved my boob in her mouth to try to talk her into dozing for a bit longer. When it worked for her and not for me, I pulled out my phone to dick around. Facebook asked me if I would allow it to post a tagged post to my timelines...

Damn me for not taking a picture of this because I knew it would get deleted eventually, but to paraphrase:

'Shout out to my cuz Stupid Stork. She has a high IQ and her sense of humor rivals mine...'

(DEAR GAWD IN HEAVEN)

'.... I don't unfriend I just remove people from my feed, it's nothing personal. I just don't need your every move, your every selfie, your every pity party, your every issue. No love lost.'

Now in the event we're not friends on the dreaded FertileBook (and why the eff aren't we? EXPLAIN YOURSELVES) you should know I am psychotically, unabashedly goofy on there.

You could complain about the number of pictures of Heisenbaby, and I would respect it.

I know how obnoxious baby pictures can be - and I put her cute ones into albums like "March 2015" for example. Bub doesn't particularly like that I post pics of her online, and I know how it is when you're trying (5 years, ya'll) seeing babies online. My reasoning for it is I waited so. long. There are a few things I don't do out of sensitivity and some I allow myself because they were things I was so looking forward to as a Mom and don't want to deny myself (which is hard). I'm not a California native so this is a way to keep in touch with people (who are all. over. the. place.) without actually having to keep in touch via 4,000 different avenues and frankly it's a good place to store some of her photos in case anything happens to them.  So you could be irritated by that, for sure, and I'd totally get why a person would want to 'unfollow'.

You could also be irritated that I'm so silly. I LOVE silly - LOVE. Some people don't. I just don't see Facebook as the avenue to bare my soul.

Which is why the rest of it is SO. CONFUSING. Self pity? Selfies? Issues?

The closest I have to a pity party is when I posted a few days ago my plan to meet new Mom friends: Sit atop tree in front yard. Bring large butterfly net. Wait.

I feel like the sarcasm is pretty evident in that one. It genuinely didn't occur to me that I should make clear that I'm not ACTUALLY sitting in a tree hoping to catch Mom friends. UNDIAL 911.

What makes this even more confusing is that this is a person who I talk to maybe at the family Christmas party for 5 minutes and I had absolutely no idea they were paying attention to what I was doing on Facebook.

Even more confusing, what is the point of tagging me in a public post? There is a handy-dandy unfollow button and I would be none the wiser. (It should be noted, that he does consider himself a bit of a thug I suppose - so my only guess is sharing this made him think he would seem very particular, coveted, badass... The flaw in this plan is that I'm a 33 year old writer/stay at home Mom so the only street cred I could give him is if he wanted to have a dance off. I do a mean robot.)

I commented 'What is happening?' and then a few minutes later I was going to post 'somehow I will move on and pick up the pieces of my life, surely there is a support group for people like me' but it had since been deleted.

So I posted the following:

I thiiiiink (?) it was just pointed out to me I put my whole life on Facebook? So now I'm going to narrate my every move to you IN ALL CAPS. BUBBA JUST PUT THE DOGS IN YOU GUYS.

And spent my day, when I had a free moment, making the following observations:

YOU GUYS I JUST GOT TO A DOCTORS OFFICE AND THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO PARKING BUT THERE WAS A PIGEON.

YOU GUYS EVERYTHING IN THIS BUILDING IS TAUPE I THINK TAUPE IS GOING TO BE HUGE IN THE DOCTORS OFFICE DECOR CIRCUIT.

TAUPE IS A GAME CHANGER. I REPEAT, TAUPE IS A GAME CHANGER.

YOU GUYS IT'S SO HARD TO DRESS FOR THE GYNECOLOGIST I'M TORN BETWEEN EASY ACCESS AND PLAYING HARD TO GET.

YOU GUYS I WAS JUST PHYSICALLY ASSAULTED BY A BUTTERFLY ON MY PORCH.

YOU GUYS MY DOGS SQUEAKY TOY ELEPHANT JUST REAPPEARED AFTER BEING MISSING FOR OVER A YEAR. QUESTIONING WHETHER HE WAS ON VACATION. VIVA HARRY ELEFANTE.

YOU GUYS WHY ISN'T WACHOVIA'S SLOGAN 'WACHOVIA WE WATCH OVA YA'.

YOU GUYS I THOUGHT I HAD A CANCEROUS LOOKING MOLE BUT IT TURNED OUT TO JUST BE A STRAY BIT OF HEISENBABY POOP.

YOU GUYS I HAVE NO IDEA WHY PEOPLE THINK HUMMINGBIRDS ARE AWESOME EVERY SINGLE FREAKING TIME I HEAR ONE I THINK IT'S A GINORMOUS BEE AND I HIT THE DECK.

YOU GUYS I HAVE THE FEELING WILFRED BRIMLEY'S MUSTACHE IS AUTONOMOUS.

(Source.)

In other news, yesterday I found out I'm getting a laparoscopy hopefully as soon as possible (first one in 15 years). I've been in crazy pain for quite a few months, so they're going to open me up to see what's the haps and if necessary look into an excision surgery.

So on a bright note, my cousin actually gave me a lovely distraction. Asshat. 

Stork's School for the Knocked Up

It. Is. Thursday.

I am nursing an obnoxious, not-going-away headache at home and playing everyone's favorite solitary game of 'hormones, allergies or brain tumor?'  And I'm too afraid to take more than just one Tylenol because of that whole new pesky Tylenol-may-give-ADHD study.

...I ammmmm however exposing my unborn child to the Anna Nicole story as seen through the lens of the Lifetime television for 'no seriously some awful shit happens to' women network. And yes, it is absolutely everything that you are picturing it to be. (Also, every time a pill is mentioned in this movie I am overwhelmed with the desire to be able to take one, which is probably not the message they're shooting for).

Anyhoo.

I feel as though we have some catching up to do... So I'm going to do a bit of info dumping for awhile until we're all caught up.  Just, you know, observations about pregnancy I will likely forget and shit I should have told you months ago.

Requisite disclaimer: I'm happy despite my complaints. I'm also not a scientist or any ist of any kind, I don't think. And blah blah blah every pregnancy is a magical individual snowflake that is as incomparable as leprechauns are to unicorn farts blah blah.

So in no rational, helpful or scientific order - lesson 1 from Storks School for Pregnancy:



Poo vs. Pooh

Naturally, upon finding out that you are pregnant, one of your first obsessions will be spotting your well deserved bump.  You will gleefully start to notice something somewhere between 4 and 10 weeks, depending on your level of insanity because gawdamit you deserve a bump and you can totally see one starting to form! Your clothes even are starting to feel a little bit snug!

Except no. Your bump is shit.

I don't mean shit bump as in inadequate. I mean that literally what you are seeing is a bump made out of shit.

Pooping is a recreational activity that will be going bye-bye fairly early on. You aren't housing a baby so much as a tiny, pea-sized poop-hoarder.  Just like the show Hoarders, really, if your torso was the house,  your baby was the hoarder, and your poop was the giant pile of garbage engulfing everything in smell and stank and awfulness.

You should absolutely take pictures of your tummy-progress because you deserve it.. but yes ma'am, for a long while what we are documenting is your constipation.

I'm a chubster to begin with but I thought for sure by the time I hit, say, 18-20 weeks I would look pregnant. Not so. Between 12 and 22 weeks I just looked like a beer drinker who had hit rock bottom.

And then BOOM - overnight.  BOOOOOOM. One day I wake up - fat fat water rat.  It is so great don't get me wrong, but also disconcerting because clearly you are growing a monster baby. One day I am a chubby girl with a secret, the next I am wedged Pooh-style in a supermarket turnstile and unable to get up off the floor without Bubba channeling his inner crane.

Raise Your Hand if You have ever been Personally Victimized by Regina George.

There's just no way of getting around it - you're going to be pretty mean. Particularly to your significant other. I did not see this coming.

I'm an infertile - I've had hormones up the wazoo for chrissakes and aside from a couple of eventually hilarious meltdowns on said hormones, I was reasonably nice. And any breakdowns were more sad than they were mean.

Enter pregnancy.

I spent the better part of the first three months pathetically mushy and climbing Bubba like a koala bear, and then he'd do something like eat the last bit of fruit I didn't know I wanted and I would want to murder him in the face.

You're being Bugged

Okay I really didn't think about this before I got pregnant - but at some point, she starts to hear. Like a real person. She's like the NSA - she may not have the interest or wherewithal to sort through my information but damnit, she has it.

She started responding to Bub's voice in particular, and suddenly I'm very aware of what a screechy harpy shrew with a megaphone I must sound like from in there... And holy fucking shit balls I'm suddenly aware of how much cursing she must be hearing.

And yes, I know that's a ludicrous concern because it's not like she's really processing what she's hearing... but did you know that babies, once they're born, can recognize and be comforted by lullabies they heard their mother sing while they were still in utero?

Would you like to know what I, no-exaggeration, ask-my-husband, wake up inexplicably singing 3-4 times a week?

WOULD YOU?!  Fine.

(I also give you the super classy Megan Mullally and Nick Offerman version  that I could not figure out how to embed.)

So for those of you keeping score - MY CHILD WILL BE COMFORTED BY RISKAY'S LET ME SMELL YO DICK.


Uterus = Stupid

I live in a weird little Los Angelian world where the fact that a lot of women have drank the fashion koolaid is hella apparent. There are rich women who gleefully brag about spending $300 for jeans (that don't like... clean your house or anything).  Hell, on Melrose there are thriving businesses exclusively dedicated to selling thrift store t-shirt finds for $50+. Due to what I can only assume is a combo of fashion magazines and salon fumes, we are the leaders in idealizing the type of rich where you can afford to be a total fucking moron (goop is a good example of this. I, seriously, want to meet the woman who shops at goop.)

So I should be used to this sort of thing but I still found it shocking - 90% of 'maternity' clothes is an overpriced rip off.  Seriously. They know you're fat and miserable and look increasingly like the actual Mr. Koolaid so they think you'll be desperate enough to drink it.

I'm not falling for it, assholes! I found a couple of dresses I like but I will otherwise gleefully run around naked this summer if I have to! You brought this on yourselves!!!

... I can, however, be talked into an overpriced onesie.

(Source.)

(Source.)

And yes those are absolutely on their way.

WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!

Okay pencils down, class.  More soon.

Drunken Vampire

Happy Monday my magic mistresses of uterine mayhem.

It has been more than a week since my last confession.  I throw myself at the mercy of the court.

In a manner referencing the great Mickey Rourke pre-plastic surgery binge, I am 9 1/2 weeks (10 on Wednesday holy shit me.) The only thing I have in common with that movie is my ability and willingness to blindly eat whatever the fridge presents me, though I can assure you it is in no way sexy.

I am pregnant.  This hasn't really sunk in yet.  I'm thinking once I get to.. what.. 14 weeks?  I can breathe and stop considering it a 'waiting game' and let the full on bliss set in.  I realize this is obnoxious and that some people are going to read that and go "you're pregnant, enjoy it you moron".. Totes get it because that's basically what I used to think.. You know what it's like?  It's like being the nerdy outcast in High School and then finally, finally your senior year the captain of the football team you've been coveting for four years asks you to prom.  YES you are feeling blissful and this is what you've been waiting for - but there's that damn realist heart-guard side of yourself that keeps whispering 'he may just want to dump pigs blood on you...'

ANYHOO.

I am going to talk about being pregnant in here.  Love me still, please.  For the most part I just anticipate shenanigans. If you need to take a step back do it and I totally get it - if you don't or can muster up some bravery, please do! I am NOT GOING TO SIT AT THE FERTILE TABLE.  Do you hear me?!  YOU ARE STUCK WITH ME.

::ahem::

Either the experience of pregnancy is truly an individual experience, or no one explained it to me right - other than the obvious shit like "hey, your boobs are going to get veiny and hurt, eventually".

So I'm realizing that my description will probably have no relevance whatsoever to how it's going to feel for you, but I'll give it to you anyway.

Pregnancy thus far - at least the first 9 1/2 weeks - is basically like being a drunk, a vampire, and/or a drunk vampire.

(Source.)

Initially you are mostly drunk - without the fun high, unless we're counting the high of knowing WHY you feel like ass.

Your stomach is iffy.  You would like to vomit a never ending river but at the same time, maybe eat a burrito.

Mysteriously your sense of balance and sage wisdom goes completely out the door, and you are left a blob of muttering animal instincts.

You have two emotions: giggly or weepy.  And that's when you can get it up to show an emotion assuming you are not too closely circling vomit river.

THERE IS NO LONGER A PLACE ON THIS EARTH WHERE YOU COULDN'T FALL ASLEEP.

Then the transformation begins.

A third emotion is added to the mix and that emotion is BLIND RAGE.  You cannot imagine what you ever found appealing about going out during the day and mixing with humans.

Unbelievable 'seriously, is she okay?  should she be driving?' exhaustion still plagues you during the day, and sleeping for any length of time at night becomes an impossible dream.

Food occasionally tastes like pointless ash, and blood becomes something you are on constant, constant look out for.

Those 'twinges' people describe - your uterus expanding actually feels like you have a big fat sunburn on the inside of your skin that someone is scratching.

You awake to newly enhanced spidey senses where you just no longer experience the world in the same way.  Oh - how do I know my husband is almost home?  BECAUSE I CAN SMELL HIM DRIVING DOWN THE STREET.



(I have never been so excited to be uncomfortable.  Bring on the second tri).

And on that note, here is Heisenberg as of this morning - had a VERY small, blink-and-you-miss-it, only-on-toilet-paper spotting on Sunday night (which I'm pretty sure is coming from the outside, not the inside) so he/she got a check up this morning just in case:

Heisenberg head down on right, crazy umbilical cord on left.

Dr Kickass pointed out he/she was MOVING which was a crazy, crazy thing to see... definitely hasn't fully computed that this is on the inside of my body but there you have it.

I go see OB tomorrow.  Crazy crazy crazy.

Frozen: The Potion of Despair

Happy Friday, my ferocious Follicle Farmers.

As it has been awhile, a brief synopsis of what has happened in case you need a refresher.

IVF #2 was in October.  Day after retrieval, Bub and I have zero fertilize.  (In the event that you're new, my favorite albeit possibly least helpful way of explaining our problem is here. And if anyone other than me gets why I titled that post 'Tybalt' I'm pretty sure we're soulmates). Two days after retrieval, MIRACLE surprise knock-me-over-with-a-feather two badass embryos. Since they were late-late bloomers, my lining wasn't ideal for them, so the plan became to freeze them and switch to FET in November if they made it to day 5 blastocysts which was highly unlikely.  And THEN THEY MADE IT.

Everyone remember in Princess Bride, when Wesley is retelling being captured on a ship... and every freaking day his captor says 'Good night, Wesley, I'll most likely kill you in the morning'.  That whole week was like THAT. 'Good night, Stork, sweet dreams - most likely they'll be dead in the morning.'

At any rate, on the 25th La Bamba and Heisenberg are being transferred.  I can't be sure as like most infertiles I avoid children's movies like the plague, but judging by the movie posters I'm fairly certain my story has been optioned and set to be released the same week as my Transfer.

Oh hey, so you're wondering what you should be thankful about for Thanksgiving?  Here goes: THAT YOU'RE NOT MY HUSBAND.

I realize it has been quiet over here in Storktown but that's only because of my very real, and very slow descent into hormonal madness.

Okay fine - so I normally dress like Helena Bonham Carter and what comes out of my mouth is usually a heavy dose of sarcasm, HOWEVER... I am really quite nice and positive and my experience with the ledge usually revolves around talking people away from it not approaching it my damn self. In short: I am a robot. Typically speaking, though I really truly understand the reasoning behind tears or being coocoo (because I have the same reasons)... When I see outwardly, hugely emotional people my first NANO second response before hugging is usually side eye because that whole feeling-things-fully doesn't come easy to me.

(Source.)

I have previously 'lucked out' in the hormone department - I don't seem to have had the 'usual' response to anything side effect wise, and so I've happily lived as the woman who could give you hope that you wouldn't either.  With Clomid, all it did was make me euphoric when I took it, and then after a painful O would be a teensy bit more sensitive than usual.  With all the IVF shots - no, not my favorite but really they just gave me a shit ton of energy and an ability to eat all the things.

In case you're keeping score, after LB & H get put back in on the 25th and I begin the PIO shots (which I anticipate not being fun, don't worry) I will have gotten the full tour, the full tilt boogie tour, of infertility drugs.  Just all of them.  All of them... All of them. Prior to this month, I would have been the prime candidate for you, before you start a new treatment, to calm you in full confidence with 'okay it's not fun, but it's not that bad'.

NOW I AM HERE TO SCARE THE BEJEEZUS OUT OF YOU.

Lupron, which I have been on for 3 weeks as of today, is devil juice.  DEVIL JUICE.

Surely you've read or at least seen all the Harry Potter's - if not I don't even have time to address your psychological issues in one post as I can barely handle mine.  At one point, Dumbledore and Harry go adventuring into a crazy ass cave, and Dumbledore has to continuously drink some seriously poison shit out of a bowl and he says to Harry beforehand, 'no matter what happens, no matter how crazy I get - you have to keep spoon feeding it to me'.

As further proof that you should absolutely re-read these books every few years because you learn something new everytime, this is potion is CLEARLY Lupron, Dumbledore is CLEARLY trying to get pregnant and Harry is CLEARLY the unwitting partner who's a little disenchanted he can't just jizz somewhere and call it a day.

Moral of the story, as I have always suspected based on his prescription glasses and scar that he claims is from a dog bite: my husband is Harry Potter and thanks to drugs I can now grow a beard like Dumbledore.

Day one and day two, I breezed through with a slight headache and the general high of doing something that felt pro-active.

Then my brain froze. Generally speaking in my life when I've been depressed it's been 'about' something. This was about nothing.  My emotional dick went limp, all my happy thoughts went bye-bye, Tinkerbell died and I couldn't wait to see her fall to the ground so I could squish her because basically she's a glorified bug.

For two weeks, clean clothes seemed far less important and I started to resemble some sort of living blanket. Curious of all curiosities, Bub can in one second be my favorite person in the world who I want to weep over with love to seeming like an unwanted debt collector spritzed in onions and shit perfume.  I reached my 30s without having any acne experience, and now I look like a 13 year old boy who has been sleeping facedown in pizza grease and chronically masturbating (yes, ladies and gentleman, the rumors are true - I am Sasha Fierce).

The transformation was slow and thorough. Optimistic and determined - bitch who's just biding time - multiple personalities -DEATH INCARNATE.

(Source.)

(Source.)

(source.)

(Source.)

Thankfully, I got to start taking estrogen last week so I am... better.

My brain has started to produce it's usual insane curiosities (like - do doll people and bronies hate each other? Discuss) so I'm taking that as a sign of thaw. My shenanigans shall slowly return.

Initially my transfer was going to be around the 20-22, but as of this morning it is set for the 25th.   On the downside, that's a few extra days of Lupron not to mention this month has gone by at a snails pace.

On the bigger upside, it'll put extra days between cigarettes and embryos (refer to Girl Interrupted picture) and it'll give me one extra weekend for me and Mr. T to greet my husband, like so, at the door everyday regarding shit that has to be done in this house pre-baby.

I whine to exorcise it a bit and because you are my troops.  I am, however, above all things super grateful and super excited and would do this 10,000 more times if it would give me a shot.

But my husband is a fucking saint.

Tybalt.

Stork and Bub are married.

Stork and Bub are wildly compatible people, the only shocking difference is volume level.  He is very introverted, and I am.... Not.

At last years IVF we discovered our eggs & sperm basically have the same dynamic.

I don't really ovulate, but with good drugs my eggs come out ginormous.  Bub's sperm have no problem getting to the egg, but get overwhelmed and decide not to tell the egg it's there in the first place.

So to recap, my eggs come out all sassy, shimmying and jazzhanding their way through our Petrie Dish in a parade of glitter and feathers.  Bub's supermodel sperm gets invited to the party, but upon arrival decides eggs are weird. Decides that eggs are too horrifying to even alert of his arrival, freezes, and then lays still and quiet so the egg won't even know he's there.

Still don't get it?  Okay here's a reenactment of what happened, with the role of my eccentric egg being played by Dave Chappelle as Prince, and the role of sperm being played by cats.

You're welcome.

So here we are, 15 months later, and in 13 hours I'm gonna be sedated and have my eggs retrieved.  

I'm super excited about that part, seeing as how it's the one day where the IVF drugs are going to be FUN.  

Useless IVF (or any fertility treatment involving injections) tip:  DO NOT READ THE HELPFUL INSERT FOR ANY INJECTABLE.

No seriously, don't even glance at it.  If your eye so much as passes over it in a half ass manner, horrible words will pop out.  Just horrible, horrible ne'er to be explained properly words about what the fuck is in that shit to begin with. Two second glance over and this is what it looks like:

Again, you're welcome. And screw you my handwriting is wonderful enjoy the free art.  I'm explaining some very scientific shit left, right and center today.

I shit you not, Bub informed me that the trigger I shot up last night contained something called CHO - as in Chinese Hamster Ovary. You just let that sink in.

(Source.)

So tomorrow is the egg retrieval.  They're going to add the secret spice to make Marc's cats talk to my Prince, hopefully, and then we will know how many fertilized on Sunday.  Considering last time it was 1 out of 10, I'm very nervous about Sunday more so than anything.  

We have to leave here at 5:30 in the morning tomorrow (weeee!) so the plan for tonight is to bulk up on Fajitas (that's protein, right?) and watch "The End".  

By sheer convenient coincidence, this movie does contain one scene which is relevant to the House of Stork climate.  I give you, Jonah Hill's interpretation of any given infertile woman once she starts progesterone suppositories, as I will be doing soon:

I am feeling lucky (I get to do IVF when I need it, after all).  I am feeling unlucky (I need IVF, after all).  I am feeling nervous, I am feeling excited, I am feeling the need for fajitas.

If I have ever made you laugh or think or pause or smirk or you have any warm and fuzzies towards me whatsoever, please think a happy thought for me during the next couple of days.  Pretty pretty please. 

Fat Monster

Hey guys!!!!

Remember how I said I inexplicably had a LOT of energy after the first few days of stims?!?

No shit - like a LOT of energy!  TONS!

Like drive the hour to my RE's office on the one Saturday I didn't need to just to verify an appointment because I'm restless kind of energy!!!!!!

Like, get my husband to take me to breakfast two days in a row and in exchange like the classy brawd that I am, have the "going out of business" style of sex - multiple times - kind of energy!!!!

Did you even know they send COUPONS in the MAIL like, directly to your house?!?  That gives me the buy all the things everywhere kind of energy!!!

Have you even NOTICED the size of hair balls that have attached themselves to my screen door? I bet if I just shimmy up on a table with a swiffer I could TOTALLY de-fur it kind of energy!!!!

What does this SWITCH do?!  How can we have a switch in our own damn house and not know what it does - where-is-our-spirit-of-adventure-we-should-remedy-this-immediately kind of energy!!!

Does ANYONE have a car they need pushed someplace?!  Fairly certain if you're changing continents I can STILL get your car there using only my hands and sheer mental prowess kind of energy!!!!

Seriously, guys, I have tapped into an unlimited amount of inner soul fuel, I can't believe people waste time on blinking!  YOU SHOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS!  I am a never ending human crack pipe of constant ener -

Dear Internet Mistresses of Ute,

As I write this, I am in my sixth day of needle captivity. For the first four, I was spry. Confident.  I was beginning to wonder if the hormones were working at all, or if somehow in the last year since our last rendezvous, I had bulked up on so much natural awesome juice and kickass and hair of fuckyeah that my body just refused to bow to the feel bads. 

What was once spritely little energizer bunny is now fat and swollen sea beast.

I am now the Nessie of Los Angeles County, bloated and fat and mysterious popping out only often enough to scare a tourist. The fact that I live 20 minutes inland and have managed to grumpily slither all over solid land without being harpooned makes this all the more impressive.

At this very moment I would equally like to cry, do the entire dance from Bobby Brown's "every little step" video, and eat pizza.  Not good pizza, mind you, but the really shitty oily pizza with the giant nippley pepperonis and grease that you can only get in middle-of-nowhere malls and/or hospital cafeterias. 

I am teetering between moments of mostly unadulterated optimism and happiness, followed by sheer terror/anxiety. Watching me from moment to moment is like watching an alien try to absorb what exactly a clown is or how to feel about it.

I AM A SHE-BEAST SEA-BEAST.  (.... with a propensity for 80s R&B and obese america's truckstop take on Italian Food.)

Please, if I am harpooned, netted, strung up and sold to the Discovery Channel so everyone can stare at my bloated, bloody carcass with horror/wonder on a show titled "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!" someone at least explain to the producers I did it because I wanted a pregnancy test to deviate from it's usual message to me.

Love,

Stork the Seacow

(Source.)

Now, I don't mean to scare anyone who hasn't had IVF.  This is number 2 for me.  While it wouldn't make any money as a spa treatment, it aint that bad. I'm just bitching and moaning for the same reason I scream bloody murder if I see a harmless hairball that I briefly mistake for a murderous spider - I'm a creature of theatre, and I like to condense nervous breakdowns to 5 second, gutteral versions.

I may go into further detail about the medications later on in an attempt to be helpful to any newbies to IVF, however for the time being just some observations - some things that I forgot and some things that are just totally fucking different than the last time.

Menapor is partially nuns pee.  Virginal, post-menopausal nuns pee that burns like syphillis going in. IVF last year - it didn't burn me at all, I had you all written off as cray cray.  Thank you to whoever made this drug but I nonetheless must say, Lawdy lawdy, this year I got the piss of a pretty freaking potent nun.  This nun is CRAZY.  CRAZY NUN.  Not as much virginal nun as the nanny from the Omen.

Also, I am NOT a crier.  I repeat:  left to my own devices, I cry about twice a year. Though I have yet to have a good one so far, I have at least once a day fought the urge to just cry some delicious, delicious and totally unnecessary tears.  This morning I was standing in line at the bank, and the thought occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that Eddie from Frasier is probably dead (that's right DEAD.  DEAD DOG) and it took a solid minute of pinching my nose and blinking dramatically to stop myself from weeping.

(Source.)

That is probably a dead dog you guys.  A DEAD DOG.  DRESSED AS SANTA, wishing YOU a MERRY CHRISTMAS.  Is he going to have a good Christmas this year?  Is he going to be gifted a giant bone with a red bow on it? Will someone wrestle him into Santa's lap at a Petco for a photo op?  NO BECAUSE HE'S DEAD AND THAT WOULD ALL BE HORRIBLY CREEPY. How can I know something like that and then be expected to do something normal like go to a bank?!  What am I some sort of Mr. Monopoly Money Monacled Monster?!?

Whether I'm exhausted or full of energy, my mouth is working super duper fast and my mouth works pretty damn fast to begin with.  I must be an utterly confusing human to be around.  Yesterday I said to my husband, and I quote, "You NEVER see a hen sitting on her eggs whilst engaging in hardcore sex.  NEVER.  And there's a reason for that!  Oh there's a reason!"

What does that even mean?!?!

ALSO.  Poop is a thing of the past.  I will miss you, poop.  My recollection from last time was that you decided to leave me closer to egg retrieval but this time you have gone above and beyond.  6 days in and I am Lorraine Warren level full of shit.

And speaking of - in addition to decaf anything, I'm officially declaring pants of any kind bull shit.  Not only will they not fit over my bloat but I would like a healthy breeze round my privates thankyouverymuch. Considering starting a fashion line called Sexy Sea Monsters for women going through fertility treatments. It's hard to cram fins and tentacles into a sensible boot cut jean.

(Source.)

Still feeling optimistic.  And happy.  Okay, in the logical part of my brain I am optimistic and happy - there's no pessimism or misery, there's no poor unfortunate soul as I am incredibly fortunate (and it feels good to be doing something to get pregnant.) It's just that the hamster who likes to talk about hen sex gets control of the wheels, occasionally.

Optimistic.  This could work.  This will work.

Just don't look at me in the meantime I'm hideous.

I Value Fuckery

Ferocious Friday, my little pop tarts.

This morning after 2 hours in traffic, I arrive at the laboratory for blood work.  I sit in one of the 50 empty chairs.

After I sit, rather than choose one of the now 49 available chairs, a surly woman with an inexplicably uncovered cup of pee comes and sits directly next to me. 

I look at her buggily.  She is unmoved. I very seriously contemplate licking her neck very gently as we are clearly involved in a very serious relationship now, or just slowly and breathily whispering in her ear "I'm soo... glad.. we're getting... this...intimate..this...fast..."

We sit together for an awkward two minutes as I attempt to tweet about this in a way that she can't see. We're practically dry humping. I am halfway to pregnant.

She then, gesturing with the pee cup so that I can intimately hear the gentle sloshing, asks me if I had to get a number.  Before I could decide how to answer, a nurse calls her in.  Her name is Mrs. Poonanny.

I can't even discuss it.

Translation: we are now day 3 into IVF #2, the super sci fi edition.  I have made two requests with the universe, one for this to work (obvi) so I'm not out of options, and two, to keep me giggling as long as humanly possible.  Now it's just a matter of egg farming (coocoocachoo) and eating all the things everywhere until I am a jiggly pile of food made flesh.

(Yesterday the BFF and I went on a distraction mission to Target. 4 hours of artful photos ensued.)

(Don't even ask me about what happened with bacon this week. Everyone knows bacon goes good with making eggs.)

As it is nearly impossible to keep everyone's ute straight, a brief synopsis to spare you from guessing and/or looking up:

Bub (the husband - not the above banana) and I have been trying since 2009.  I got PCOS.  I don't ovulate without Clomid. We got problems. 99 problems and a baby aint one.

We get to IVF last year.  I respond well.  Inexplicably, even with ICSI only one out of twelve fertilized (would normally be 70-80%). One gets transferred.  Mother effing chemical pregnancy.

Bub's sperm looked awesome - so did my eggs.  Dr. Kickass had his sperm tested for DNA fragmentation - he was fine.  Dr. Kickass got him enrolled in a study to see if he was missing a protein that tells my eggs his sperm is there in the first place -ding ding ding!  So this time, we're trying to get me to make some more eggs (coocoocachoo, I say!!) and then bypass Bub's deficiency by adding the protein to our dishes.  Weeee!

So same shit, basically, as the usual IVF - injecting me with craziness, egg retrieval, etc. - they're just trying a secret spice this time when everybody finally gets together to cook in the pot.  We're adding nutmeg, if you will.

(My spread).

I am medicated.  I have been injected with nuns pee and the like (true story - look it up). The irony of virginal nuns pee burning like a raging case of the ole syphillis going in is not lost on me.

I am zippy.  Inexplicably, 'has she had the blue Heisenberg shit?' zippy.  Nurse Kickass says this should wear off soon and I should start to feel like bloated walrus carcass any minute now.

There is no reason for this zippiness. Let's review - I have had a flu shot, hormones, and though I have quit my sleeping medication I have also quit caffeine.  And right now I could push a fucking car.

Apart from that, I have exactly two responses left to my actual husband: either I want to kill him or fuck him. I can't imagine what other purposes he serves as he is either infuriatingly sexy or just infuriating.  So clearly, the hormones are indeed kicking in.  (And speaking of fucking - today is my last day to do that safely.  I am none too thrilled with this news as I am practically a 14 year old boy and I currently have the pimples to prove it).

The BFF (banana-for-fuckssake) is coming over and we are going to walk to Starbucks to get me some bullshit decaf coffee.

(For the record, folks, now that I'm on the good girls list I can officially say decaf, non-smoking, non-anything is bull shit and you know it.  And so help me if you wave a bunch of kale in my face and tell me it solves everything I will wrestle you into a pork-costume and whisper moistly on your neck).

Mostly I'm kind of euphoric, though.

So please, Universe, pretty please, keep me as positive and giggly and enjoying my fuckery/shenanigans as much as humanly possible while I can.

Please, please fellow infertile.. I don't expect you to feel 100% thrilled or hopeful for me, I appreciate whatever you can muster.. But to nominate myself for a little bit of your positivity: this is my last shot.  I am not the girl that gets pregnant on round one of Clomid, I am not the couple that believes they are in the throws of despair after a few months.  I'm the girl that gets on the train, stays on for years, drives well past screwed, passes the time with jokes.  I am the rare occasion, the horror story, that people could genuinely pull out and say "well if she got pregnant, then there's hope".  Let me be hope.

Please, please, Universe, Gawd, Energy, Universal Force, Frida Kahlo and Bill Murray's testes.. It's my time. 

I've had enough.  I've done a pretty good job at staying silly and tapdancing, and 4 years later I'm still Ms. Bojangles over here.  

It's not my time because I deserve it more or less than anyone else.. it's just my time.  That's all. It just is. Time for a new lesson.

And if you nominate me to Mommy, I will reign benevolently and humorously.  I will be sensitive to others, love my kid beyond anyone's wildest expectations and do the absolute best I can - and possibly most importantly, be full of gratitude for every shitty and/or wonderful motherhood experience.

Please universe, don't punish me for a rare show of optimism.

Please, please, please, please.

Mountain Lion Shit

Happy Friday, my Fantastic Follicle Farmers.

I am allllmost back to normal!  No seriously.  And I will be spending my weekend writing the 10 million things I have to write and, more importantly, reading all the 10 million blogs I want to catch up on in a completely creepy way because it is possible - quite possible - that I am approaching some level of lucidity.

And speaking of completely creepy and my lack of lucidity in the past two weeks, I have outdone myself. Outdone.

It is important to keep in mind, here, that I am a lunatic someone who prides herself on being able to entertain herself in otherwise boring situations. If an hour has gone by and I have not snorted at something then my hamster-in-a-wheel brain starts getting creative and determined to find a way to make myself snort.

Also important to this story, occasionally I get text messages from people (even though I've had the same number for 9 million years) who I don't know.  This, in general, brings out the inner artist in me.  Oh and my inner artist is a psychotic 5 year old who has had too much cotton candy laced with meth.

So Wednesday night, I had just wrapped up a conversation with my teenage Sister-in-Law Bubella about how her teenage boyfriend's phone number was publicly on Twitter and this was stupid, because something like that could literally entertain me for a month straight. So already, the hamster operating my controls was thinking about the weirdest possible things you could do with a new persons phone number.

After this conversation, I got a text 20 minutes later from a number I did not recognize except that it was from the DC area. In my Ambien fueled mind, there were two possible scenarios.  One, it was the sudo brother-in-laws number because we had just been talking about it.  Two, it was a DC friend who had not alerted me that they changed their number and therefor must be punished.

The following happened.  I would be in the blue.

Now at this point, after sending what was clearly in my mind the obligatory picture of mountain lion shit, I went to bed. Yesterday afternoon it occurred to me... Waaaaait a second, I should probably double check that this was, in fact, my sisters boyfriend who it's my job to torment when given the opportunity.

I was texting her about something else, and as an afterthought, double checked to see that it was him.

NOPE.

Cue the wondrous combination of absolute horror and uncontrollable laughter.

Suffice it to say she found this to be the funniest thing that ever happened and demanded an explanation as to why I don't have my own YouTube channel as my shenanigans are not to be believed when retold.

After a few hours I caved and did a back search on the number.

Turns out it was my High School sweetheart.

So, in the event that 15 years later he wanted to text me just to verify I was still batshit crazy, this was a successful mission on his part.  Don't worry, I explained myself nicely.

(Still haven't heard back from him).

In other news, the cyst is gone (I finally managed to kill that shit like a rabid puma) and minus this whole kidney infection on the way out, I am almost ready to go.

Sat down with awesome-sauce IVF nurse and I'm all loosely scheduled.  Egg Retrieval scheduled for first week of October.

I am nervous?  Optimistic?  Pessimistic?

And just for the record, here, if it doesn't work I will be calling you all at home, repeatedly, like so:

And you know I will as I clearly can't be trusted with phones.

Blizzardnado

It is creeping on Friday evening, interwebs, I have had two near-death experiences in the past week and I am feeling sassy and threw on a pair of fresh pajamas to celebrate.

I have felt lousy for probably... the entire summer. I thought this was due in large part to Francisco the Asshole Cysto which made me feel like a Class-A Pussy.

Why?  It was a CYST.  At his mightiest and most powerful he was only 4...  I'm bad with measurements.  Couldn't really tell you the difference between an inch and a mile.. something, for chrissakes. And there I was complaining about him, profusely, to Dr. Kickass. (Francisco is now, apparently, deflated and waving around pathetically like one of those inflatable people they have outside of used car dealer ships, by the way. Yay progress.).

I am not that woman, damnit.  I once went to Cedar Sinai with a kidney stone, passed the damn thing in the waiting room and went home.  I once walked a half mile home on a broken foot.  I WILL TAKE THAT PAIN AND RAISE IT A FUCK YOU.

But I've felt totally off all summer.  

Thursday I saw my GP and got some antibiotics because I felt like I had a UTI (considering I'm a horny she-beast I've had them enough times to just alert him when I've needed something).  Saturday I woke up with a headache and feeling like everywhere I went it was snowing.  By Saturday night I had a fever of 102.

By Tuesday morning, my fever was approaching 104, I didn't really understand what day it was, I had a laying down heart rate of 140, I was wearing so many blankets someone could've mistaken me for a Bed Bath & Beyond and I hadn't said anything snarky in nearly 48 hours.  GP sent me to Urgent Care.

Kidney infection, bitches.  Gnarly kidney infection.  I have never felt. That sick. In my entire. Life.

So I had probably been wandering around with an infection all summer, someone passed a slight cold-like bug to me, and my body was like nahhh, dude, too much. I lost 8 lbs in 4 days (so if anyone needs me to like, lick their face while I'm still a little cootieish, I'm game). 

I've spent my week hydrating like a motherfucker, exhausted by moving more than 5 feet, and taking antibiotics the size of gravy boats. Bub took a day off to take care of me, my Mom came up for a day - I couldn't do shit. It has been 36 hours with a temperature below 100 and I've never felt so excited to feel like regular old flu-garbage in my entire life.

On the downside, given my very thick curly hair and lack of being able to move, I look like Cornel West (I definitely mean hair, I kind of mean eyebrows and I may even mean beard). Which as you can imagine, though he looks quite distinguished, is not a good look for a pale girl in her 30s.

(Source.)

Now to the more important near-death experience.  I was almost killed by a komodo dragon.

Bubba the Grump is known affectionately as the worst-nurse-ever.  Nurturing is not his bag. However, this week he did amazingly awesome. He made sure I took my antibiotics, frequently took my temperature, I'd be unconscious and wake up to him hovering over me with a water saying 'drink, woman, drink'.

So the fact that now that I'm mentally more awake I see that the house is a four-alarm catastrophe that any sane person would have condemned is not something I'm upset about.  Had I re-emerged from my coma in a smoldering pile with a husband and three animals covered in ashes, I'd still be pretty proud of him. But today I felt well enough to get up and try to clean for a few minutes.  Gawd smited me.

My only supervisors today are my 500 lb cat  (Mokey), the 40 lb corgi-mix (Phoebe) and the giant somewhat dopey husky mix Luna (I say dopey lovingly - I'm just saying I'm pretty sure whatever thought process she has there are banjos playing in the background).

Let me just say that I feel an intruder in our house should have gone far smoother with this team.  Phoebe, although loving, is a known mouse, bird and bunny murderer. I've left her outside for five minutes only to come out and find her wearing a feather beard with a grin on her face. The only thing that's gotten away from her clutches is a skunk and that's because it distracted her with a skunk-dance before spritzing her right in the nose and everyone knows corgis are suckers for the majesty of an elaborate tap-dance number.  Luna is the scariest fucking thing you've ever seen in your life.  Dopey, yes, but on looks alone she kills. If Mokey hasn't seen a piece of food in 20 minutes, she has the balls to act as though she is starving to death despite looking like a furry waterbed and will smack you right in the face because that's how she rolls.

SO THIS. SHOULD HAVE. GONE. BETTER.

I am in the kitchen cleaning and wondering if while I was unconscious my husband just put pounds of mud on every clean plate just to mix shit up, when I notice that Phoebe and Mokey are sitting in the kitchen fixated on something in the laundry room.  We have a child safety gate between the kitchen and the laundry room - not because we have children (HA) but for the far more ridiculous reason of keeping the dogs from accessing the... free dog bakery Mokey runs out of a box. I go to see what they're looking at and they seem to be looking at a giant piece of fur.

'What are you looking at?' I say as though I'm snow fucking white and can speak to animals, and as I do the giant ball of fur gets up on it's legs and starts to scurry around the laundry room. Not a ball of fur, but a LIZARD.

A series of things happen all at once.

I, naturally, jump up on my kitchen bench and start screaming.

Mokey, who is supposed to take care of this sort of riff-raff being a cat the size of a large diabetic puma, runs into the living room and wedges half of her body under the couch, ass in the air because it won't fit.

Luna, the scariest, proceeds to just run around the living room barking like I'm not scared for my life but rather have just announced that we're all going to Disneyland.

Phoebe, brave soldier that she is, dives as though belly-flopping off a pier into the laundry room. Through sheer gymnastics I shut the child safety gate behind her and scream (Snow White has grown hostile) that I will not be letting her out until she gets rid of it and then continue to scream at the top of my lungs.

I'm screaming, Luna is barking in circles (in the wrong room, naturally), I hear Phoebe scuttling furiously in the laundry room all the while attempting to text Bub that I have survived high fevers and a kidney infection ONLY TO BE KILLED BY GODZILLA and he needed to come home at once (from an hour away) or I was calling the SWAT team.

He apparently thought this was an overreaction.

This is my punishment for cleaning and for mocking sharknado made manifest - I will die by combination Barknado and Lizardnado. A Blizardnado.

Three minutes later it has occurred to me that the neighbors might think I'm being murdered, I spent a good 30 seconds contemplating whether them sending the cops would be a BAD thing before I noticed that Phoebe had stopped scurrying.  Peeped around the corner (my bravest moment) and she seemed to be sitting at the gate triumphant.

I cannot determine cause of death exactly as I will NOT go into the laundry room and I find it best when hiring a furry hitman not to ask any questions just to be grateful, however there appears to be a smooshed, lizard shape outline near my second fridge. (And that damned lizard carcass is blocking me from my juice). Not to say that this was the king of Lizard's but had I found Jim Morrison standing in my laundry room I would've been less surprised.

Mind you, I am happy that I have survived this.  I am.  However, if you would have asked me yesterday I would've thought it gone smoother.  Much more like the Cat on Roomba if the role of duck was played by a lizard, you know?  Hyperfocused cat predator with dogs in the background as a just-in-case muscle prop.  They spot unwanted creature, and without blinking whip out costumes and machinery like a finely tuned death squadron.

Not a psychotic corgi saving the day with a cat, husky and woman in the background acting fucktarted.

(Sidenote - the tile in this video is the exact tile in my laundry room, so now I feel as though this video was trying to prophetically warn me).

Be thankful to be alive today, people.  It's true, there is infertility and lizards and people casting Ashton Kutcher to play Steve Jobs (whaaaaaaaat?! Honestly Luna is closer to Steve Jobs' intelligence) in this world... and if you're having trouble feeling thankful, I give you my new favorite everything (apart from cat on roomba).

The Vagenius Flames of July

And just when you thought you were safe, just when you started to once again breathe easier and go about your day to day business and walk your dog without looking over your shoulder, out from the bushes pops a psychotic bug-eyed stork who pins you to the ground and refuses to let go until she's vomited her entire life upon your peaceful existence.

In other words, hey girl heyyyy. I know I've been absent lately, boo. Girl you know I don't mean it when I disappear like that.  Get over here and let's motorboat our way back to intimacy.  I had a somewhat last-minute visit from my darling Sister-in-Law for two weeks and before that an unfuckingfathomable work load. Forgive me, sugar lips?  If it makes you feel any better I thought about your lovely lady lumps a lot.  No, seriously, and in an even creepier fashion than usual.

And now I go about the business of updating you on the wildly important content of the last month.

1. Speaking of creepy and vomiting all over your peaceful existence, I saw 'The Conjuring'.

Now, if you're too afraid to see it I'll tell you that anything based on a story as told by Lorraine Warren is horseshit.  I love me some paranormal people and one or two I believe, but she's one of the ones where if you flush a toilet in your house she's going to go flapping and squawking out of it yelling "demon!  Deeeemonnnn!"  if that makes you feel any better.

If you would like to see it, but are perhaps too preoccupied or frightened to see it in theatres, let me know and I will come over, wait until you fall asleep, and then hover a few inches over your face with my ridiculously unkempt hair until I can muster up some bloody vomit to bathe you in.  That'll give you the gist.

Oh.  Also - can we all just accept that all dolls are horrifying, definitely come to life at night and should be burned in a great big pile?  I feel like that will solve a lot of problems. K thanks.

(Source).

2.  I was instructed by my Doctor for awhile there to abstain from sex so as to not aggravate Francisco the Asshole Cysto.  Now, as we all know, the instant you are told you HAVE to have sex you are suddenly overwhelmed with narcolepsy and likewise, the instant you are told you CAN'T have sex, you feel as though you have been mainlining raw oysters and Spanish Fly into your veins whilst sitting on top of an unstable dryer. Suddenly Bubba's "Greatest Hits" reel was playing over and over in my head, highlighting his greatest moments in vagenius. 

And wouldn't you know it, that asshat wouldn't go for it?  Try as I might to shimmy everywhere I went and drop a lot of things, he remained unmoved.  Something about sex resulting in wild amounts of painful screaming on my part not being his thing... weirdo.

3.  Speaking of weirdo sexual proclivities, I learned what 'cuckolding' is.

You see, a creepy man who wanted to buy my car (which is not for sale) had my number because I am an idiot. Bubella and I were out for a lovely dinner when creepy man butt dialed me.  Creepy man proceeded to have a conversation with a girl for seven minutes that began something like this:

"I know you want to fuck a lot of other people, I know you do.  I just don't get why I can't be in the room when you're doing it because that would really turn me on".

And then proceeded into further detail.  (and YES I listened for seven minutes in a very nice restaurant.. Who are you to judge me?!?!)

Any particular sexual fetish and I can usually, usually, tilt my head and squint my eyes and see why that would be a turn on for some people.  This one... no.  There is no fathomable cocktail - of booze, prescription meds, roofies, bleach, whatever - that you could give me that would result in anything else other than that girl being buried in my backyard.  (And my dogs have been kind enough to pre-dig the holes, just in case).  My feelings on the subject are best expressed via Madeline Kahn in "Clue".

4.  I spent two weeks in teen town.

I am crazy - NUTS - for my Sister in Law Bubella who is 17. She is a kickass girl who I have known for nine years and she will be one of my closest friends forever.  She's amazing and I can't wait for her to hit 21 so we can booze up the town.  Much more my sister than she is SIL. She is the exception to my rule - the rule being I tend to regard teenagers much in the same way one would a large sweaty woman's used tampon being placed in the middle of your Cobb salad.

But man alive - I could disappear into teen twitter town for hours.  Those bitches be cray-cray.  Everything is life or death, a horrible attempt at being deep, a picture that makes them look like baby prostitutes (you can smell the impostor perfume, I tell you) and/or they've apparently been told that just being aware that marijuana exists is your one way ticket to cooltown so by all means, prove it's existence in your life as much as possible.  Nothing is cooler than trying to look cool, apparently.

Honestly it's an entire post, my discoveries - the one Bubella is not immune to, however, is apparently whenever a teenager talks to their parents they inevitably sound like a sexually frustrated Napoleon Dynamite.

Not that I am always the best influence.  I may or may not, while we were in San Diego, have decided it was an excellent idea for us to go swimming in the hotel fountain which we did.  Mr. T and I also spent a significant amount of time trying to dress her like a baby prostitute in a West Hollywood thrift store.

5. Those of you who watch True Blood - know that I am a psychotic fan, and under no circumstances would I allow my Sunday evening to be interrupted when it comes on.  But good Lord this season is disappointing.  Can we just kill off Sam and Alcide, please, because I could really give a shit less at this point.  (Yes, fine, Alcide is hot - what if instead of him being a character they just had nudey pictures of him run through the credits?)

Because everytime him & Sam talk in this storyline that I don't give a shit about, my eyes glaze over and I swear to you all I hear, in angry tones, is:

Alcide: grrrr I have a beard
Sam: me too!
Alcide: Beard
Sam: No but seriously, beard
Alcide: Hey, Sam?  I'd like to talk to you about something... We have beards.

10 minutes out of every mother fucking episode.

6.  I watched Bryan Cranston get his star, which made me feel like a fraud considering I had just finished, less than 24 hours before, getting into a deep philosophical argument with Bub about why I hate Breaking Bad. And I'm the one that got to see him.

7.  Despite our deep, deep, deep fundamental differences in regards to Breaking Bad, Bub and I celebrated our 7th anniversary on the 22nd.  And yes indeed, sex we had. Vagenius reborn.

8. Apparently there's a headless man wanted on the streets of Los Angeles so, you know, keep a look out.

9.  I do not give a shit about the Royal Baby.  Do not. Give. A. Shit. And if from now on I have to spend every childless anniversary listening to what wondrous things he's crapped out of his tiny anus in the last year I will burst into flames Madeline Kahn style.

I mean health, happiness, best of luck but sweet merciful crap.. Really?  I am supposed to give a shit about this?  In 5 gajillion years he may be the head of a country I am not a citizen of.  Quick - everyone start inspecting the vaginas of expectant Moms to try and get a grasp of what fetus will be President when I'm 500 years old.

And spoiler alert - he looks like a grumpy old potato full of shit and tears just like every newborn.  He is a Royal Potato, sure, but a potato nonetheless.

It is, however, making me seriously consider announcing the birth of my child with a 41 gun salute.

10.  This afternoon I absentmindedly took my thyroid pill.  Turns out - not my thyroid pill, but half (HALF I didn't realize) of an Ambien pill. So the rest of my day will be spent thusly:

That video makes me die.

Okay - I think we're all caught up.  I am BACK.